


Manadh

by I_Will_Go_Down (ZeroToWeirdo)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Darkness, F/M, Get Together, I'll probably add tags later, M/M, Magic, War, because I don't know what to tag, because there is magic, because there will be war and darkness, not entirely sure what to tag this, nvm I'll edit the tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroToWeirdo/pseuds/I_Will_Go_Down
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a legend about the well in the garden. </p>
<p>Bilbo had grown up hearing the whispers of older cousins about one true loves and riches and glory and destiny, had heard aunts and uncles discussing the well in hushed awe. When he was old enough, they told him legends of how his great great great great great grandfather Baggins had wished upon the well and had received an angel in his time of need from a land beyond the veil. It was a spectacular and mythical legend, with wars and desperation and a sanctified hope at the end of a bleak tunnel. </p>
<p> It was poppycock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manadh

There was a legend about the well in the garden. 

Bilbo had grown up hearing the whispers of older cousins about one true loves and riches and glory and destiny, had heard aunts and uncles discussing the well in hushed awe. When he was old enough, they told him legends of how his great great great great great grandfather Baggins had wished upon the well and had received an angel in his time of need from a land beyond the veil. It was a spectacular and mythical legend, with wars and desperation and a sanctified hope at the end of a bleak tunnel. 

 It was poppycock. 

 

 Bilbo knew this to be true, to the very core of his being. His elders could wag their heads, click their tongues and squint their eyes at him all they wanted, but Bilbo knew that the well was simply that. A well. 

 

And he knew this because in his bleakest hour, when the Fell Winter was at it's worst and his only loves, his parents, had been taken from him, he had gone to the well (the well his mother cared for daily by gardening all around, the well his father proudly considered himself guardian of, as was his Baggins right) and it had done nothing. 

 

It had not given him reprieve as it had Good Ol' Forefather Baggins. It had not brought back his parents. It did not stop those around him from dying of hunger and the wargs from killing the rest. It had done nothing, as wells were wont to do. 

 

From his time as a fauntling till then, he had listened with starry eyed rapture, excitement stirring in him at the thought of being the next Baggins guardian of the well ("It's a great honour, Bilbo" his father told him proudly as he puffed on his pipe, so long ago in better times). Now all he excitement and loyalty and burned down to grudging service. 

 

What he did was not for the well, it was for his parents. For how sad would his mother be if the garden around the well were to wilt and choke under the reign of weeds? And how broken would his father be at the invasion of moss and unsightly bird droppings on the glistening stones of the well's wall? For them, he maintained the accursed thing, but as he did so he would grumble under his breath of the futility of it all. Like a stone idol, it stood there with blind eyes and mute tongue and deaf ears, and all the faith heaped upon it were a mockery to the very thought of faith. 

 

For years, Bilbo would spend the odd afternoon tending to the well (time he thought would be better spent elsewhere, but he digresses) and it was on such an afternoon that he found his brooding thoughts and grumbling interrupted by a clearing of the throat. He had heard the likes of it quite often from his pesky relatives and endeavored to ignore it. Of course that made the person clear their throat once more, and another time after that, till he started to cough.

 

Satisfied that he had at least caused some discomfort to the interloper (Bilbo was feeling particularly petty today) he looked up and was rather surprised to see a wizard. How he knew the man was a wizard was, of course, because of his long beard and rather intimidating staff. His height was quite another thing, towering over Bilbo's Hobbitish stature. Realizing that he may have been prematurely rude to the stranger, he cleared his own throat (a self-conscious tick) and asked: "Good morning?" 

 

He realized belatedly that those words, precisely in that order, were not meant to be posed as questions, but really the damage was done and he was far too nervous now to take it back, for though he maintained that wells held no power, wizards certainly did. "I would say yes, it rather is." the wizard replied, before looking grim "Though perhaps not for long." 

 

Well, that was rather ominous. "I beg your pardon." Bilbo said, astounded at the wizards bluntness and ending up rather blunt himself. He, once again rather belatedly, realized that this sentence SHOULD have been a question, and he was quite regretting being born with a tongue. 

 

"It is freely given, Bilbo Baggins, though it does not necessarily hold weight on my part as I am but a messenger. Now if you are quite done with those hydrangeas, I have much to tell you." the wizard replied. 

 

And so Bilbo found himself sitting in his kitchen with Gandalf the Grey and a steaming pot of tea, discussing dreams. Particularly, the possibility of Bilbo having had a specific dream recently. Particularly, one that Gandalf and his peers had all had on the same night. "I'm afraid I haven't had any dreams of any particular significance. At least, not that I can think of. Unless...have you and your wizard friends been dreaming of inescapable tea parties and relatives turning into silver spoons?" Bilbo asked, clearly knowing the answer to that.

 

Gandalf shook his head slowly, deep in contemplation. "Perhaps I have come at the wrong time. Perhaps the dream is yet to come to you. All the better to prepare you, then, for the task ahead of you." Bilbo blinked. "I'm sorry, task?" he asked, suddenly feeling dread creep over him, along with a burst of indignation. "My dear wizard, I have had tasks heaped to my ears since birth, most of which I did not desire. If you have come to add to my growing agenda of responsibilities, I'm afraid I must ask you on your way and have a good day."  

Gandalf shook his head once more, solemnly. "If you wish me gone, I shall leave, but I will tell you my dream and the interpretation we believe is to be attributed to it. Will you hear?" The choices laid before him, as it were, gave Bilbo a growing sense of dread. If the dream were ominous enough that three wizards would dream it, discuss it, and send a representative to his doorstep, he knew it held weight. Simultaneously, he had the naive hope that ignorance would bring him bliss and the dream would yield nothing from his clueless mind. Oh how Bilbo wished that would work. Sadly, pragmatism won overall, and he nodded his assent to hear the tale. 

 

 "Seven days ago, on the last night of Laer on Mid-year's Day, a dream came upon my brethren and I. We saw before us a towering mountain, ever growing and seeming to pulse in the sky with a lake at its foot. In the horizon, the sun and the moon shared dominion over the sky, but the sun was a darkened mass and the moon shone red as blood. As the two diminished lights hung in the sky, the mountain grew dark and like a rushing wind, from the deepest parts of its belly, we heard a great cry...I could not utter it now lest this smial be forever tainted, but the words spoken in Black Speech translate to ''Manadh" meaning the final end.  
  
Then the stars began to fade from the sky and all was dark, illuminated by the dying glow of the blood moon. When the world became dark, and the mountain seemed to grow to envelop the sky in darkness, we felt our hopes leave us...but for a moment, there was the shrill ringing of iron struck by iron, and upon the lake and in it, the stars were reborn. From the foot of the mountain, the light of Varda overtook the shadow, inch by inch and foot by foot. For many moments, the battle would ebb and flow, now in favor of the light now of the darkness. 

In a final deciding moment, a great tree arose from the lake, its roots watered by light and its leaves fed by darkness, and its branches grasped the mountain and shook it at its base. With a might groan, the roots of the tree and the mountain shook and were ripped from the ground, and with a crash that shook all of Arda, they toppled. The dream ended in the silence of the aftermath, and none of us that were visited with the vision knew of the outcome, for had light and darkness perished as one, or had one prevailed? And if so, which power?"

 

Bilbo had never been so shaken, shivers of terror wracking his body at the descriptions given by the wizard, all the more terrifying with the reflections of recollection in the wizened eyes of the storyteller. "A darkness is rising?" he asked, his voice a whisper in the twilight, for the sun was beginning to set. 

 

"It is. It has. And with the image of the lake, we now know where to seek this darkness." the wizard said solemnly, filling his pipe with pipe weed and lighting it. "We must go to Khazad-dûm. To the gates of Moria, where Durin's Stone lies." 

"Now wait a moment, where is this _we_ coming from? I do hope you mean you and your wizard brethren, because I, for one, am not going towards the darkness. I am staying right here." Bilbo announced, a terror gripping at his throat. "Why have you sought me, Gandalf? Why would you seek out a Hobbit, let alone a...a... me." 

 

Gandalf stared at Bilbo in what appeared to be mild disbelief. "You must surely see the significance of the water and the tree, Bilbo." 

"I see nothing. I see nothing but things beyond my realm, things I cannot hope to understand let alone conquer." 

"Bilbo, for many years your kind have been the guardians of a great magic...the three great, but gentle, powers that have never been corrupted by darkness. The waters of Ulmo, the growing things of Yavanna Kementári, and the light of Varda."

_**"....This is about the bloody well?!"**_ Bilbo shouted in anger, so overcome by rage that his terror fled him and heat filled his bones, inciting him to rise from his seat. 

"Gandalf, it is a well! It is a glorified puddle! It holds nothing but stagnant water and promises unfulfilled, it holds no magic! There is no hope for you here. A savior will not rise from that well, and it will certainly not rise from me." 

 

Gandalf was still, taking in Bilbo's onslaught with an unreadable face. "If that is how you feel, Bilbo, then there is naught I can do. I and mine will go to Khazad-dûm and see what can be done, whether our fellowship be complete or not." Bilbo started back as the wizard arose, looking gaunter than when he had first arrived. 

 

He walked to the door in silence (a silence so terrible Bilbo felt a coldness grip his insides as the word 'coward' echoed through his mind) but stopped short at the door. "Bilbo...did you know that 'Manadh' has more than one meaning?"

 

Bilbo had not known that, and he responded in more silence, unsure he wanted to know. Gandalf did not notice, or heed, his apprehension and explained, "It means 'final end', but can otherwise be translated as fate, and fortune. Not all dark things are so for long, for darkness only prevails in the absence of light. The darkness, no matter how great or daunting, does not diminish the promise of that light to come...one simply has to endure until it’s time. Good night, Bilbo Baggins.”

 

Bilbo collapsed into his chair, assured that the night and many following would be anything but good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bilbo awoke (when had he slept?) with the tendrils of his dream still grasping him close. He had felt a great pulling in his sleep, where he felt as though he were half waking and half not, his eyes heavy and unable to open as his body was pulled this way and that by a tide. As the tide grew stronger, that which shook him seemed to gain substance, now a ghost of a touch then firm hands shaking him to waking.

  
Even as he sat up in a start, he heard a guttural tongue echoing in the stillness of the night, like a ringing of a bell. He did not understand a word of it (was this the black speech Gandalf spoke of?) but he felt the urgency of it, the desperation...was this a prayer?

  
  
Unbidden, images of himself as a fauntling, kneeling before the well in desperation, seeking some form of redemption from dark times, came to mind. He would not sleep tonight. He escaped the confines of his bed, for it felt strangling now, and approached the window to open it.

 

And that was when he saw what was happening in his garden.

 

The well was glowing. Softly, merely a slight tinge of silver and blue to the air surrounding the mouth of the well, but certainly glowing.

 

His feet had never moved so fast and sure as it did in that moment, flying down steps and through grass till he stood a few feed from the well. He could hear the guttural language once more coming from the mouth of the cave. “Hello?” he asked, before rolling his eyes at himself. This was magic, for crying out loud, what were the chances that someone was actually _in_ the well.

 

As he approached the well, the echoes of voices began to fade, as did the glow, causing him to rush forward. Looking down into the well, he was shocked to find a reflection of himself, which shouldn’t have been possible in the dead of night, with or without the effervescent glow. Something was odd about the reflection, though...it took him a while to realize just what was amiss, when he realized that the stars overhead looked as though an astral crown sat upon his curls.

 

“What in Arda...” he whispered, a strange sense of awe filling him, when suddenly the reflection seemed to be getting closer. Bilbo barely had the opportunity to gasp before the water rushed towards him (or did he rush towards it?) and he was plunged into the cold depths.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“ _Uncle...the sun will rise soon_.” Fili muttered in Khuzdul, staring at the brightening horizon. It was grey, as was everything else it seemed to touch. “ _We’ll be needed in the courtroom after we drop off the stag.”_ Kili added, looking slightly uncomfortable. Unlike Fili, he had not grown used to seeing his strong uncle kneeling before a stone, forehead pressed to it in what seemed like uncharacteristic desperation. He never uttered a word, but somehow his silence screamed and his muteness wailed. 

 

He had not believed when Fili first told him that his uncle would do this every time they left to hunt, taking the remnants of the final night on his knees before[ Durin's Stone](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Durin%27s_Stone). It held significance to Durin’s folk, certainly, as did the lake [Mirrormere](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Mirrormere#cite_note-0), but usually that significance was limited to remembrance. To Thorin, it held something more. 

 

Once, Fili had asked his uncle why he would stop at Durin’s Stone at every opportunity, often seeming to dread returning to the halls of Moria. All Thorin had said was “Durin found his destiny here, Fili. He wandered a new world, unknowing where to go, and here he discovered his path.” 

 

Fili and Kili knew it had to do with the dark times hanging over them. There was talk of Thrain growing goldsick in Erebor. There was talk of a certain darkness clouding the mind of their own king, Thror. A gathering sense of dread hung over the people of Durin and none felt it so keenly as Crown Prince Thorin, and none felt the burden of it so harshly as he as well.

 

“ _Yes. We’ll leave now.”_ Thorin stated as he stood up, gathering his sword which lay at his side as he knelt. Fili and Kili waited as he performed his final ‘ritual’ of gazing into the waters of Mirrormere. They watched as his tense shoulders began to slump in disappointment as he (once more) saw nothing in the depths. The brothers shared a look of uncertainty, for this melancholy that overcame their uncle was beginning to weigh on their minds, when a sharp gasp interrupted their thoughts. 

 

They turned in time to see the water glow at the foot of Thorin. “ _What in Durin’s name...”_ Thorin whispered, when suddenly the surface broke and a creature gasped from the water. “ _What in Durin’s name?!”_ Thorin said once more, this time far louder and slightly more outraged. He grabbed the small creature and pulled it onto the shore of the lake as it gasped and wheezed.

 

“What are you and how did you come here?” Thorin demanded in Westron, while the creature knelt before him catching its breath. It looked odd, like a child of man, yet with the ears of an elf, and with the countenance of one grown yet severely lacking in a beard or any other indicator of age. A halfling of sorts, as it seemed to be half the size of a man. As the creature regained his breath, he stood up and looked up, and his eyes filled with dread. Fili could not stop his reaction to clutch his sword and cast his gaze behind him, searching for whatever it was that had scared the little thing.

 

“Oh Eru...” whispered the halfling. “Khazad-dûm.” he said in a voice tinged by fear. “How do you know the old name of Moria?” Thorin asked sharply. The halfling did not bother with Thorin, instead turning to the water. “Varda! Ulmo! Take me from here, please!” 

 

His cry echoed through the valley and wrought no response. With a heavy heart he stared into the water, seeing nothing but his own silhouette, dark against a grey sky. A rough hand grasped his shoulder and yanked him to face Thorin. “You will answer me, halfling.” 

 

“I cannot defeat the darkness. I cannot defeat the darkness alone.” he whispered in response. In that moment, Thorin’s eyes widened in shock, recognizing his own prayer on the tongue of this stranger, and in that moment, the halfling recognized his own fears reflected in the eyes of this stranger. This was the voice crying in prayer...this voice was what had brought him here. This was where fate had led them, and it would not end till the play was played out.

 

The sun rose overhead.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:  There was a legend about the well in the garden.
> 
> It was meant to be crack. it was meant to be fluffy, fluffy crack. I don’t know how it became a story with chapters, but there we are. It will be an eight part story. Also, there is a chance that the warnings will be added later on because as of yet, I do not know how I will be depicting violence or lack thereof.
> 
> Original post of this fic can be found [here](http://iwillgodown.tumblr.com/post/147223393284/manadh) on my tumblr.


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